


The Silence of Grief

by Madelief



Series: Alistair and Freya's Adventures [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, OH THIS HURT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:10:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madelief/pseuds/Madelief
Summary: From the Tumblr flower prompt Zinna - I mourn your passing.King Alistair at the commemoration of his Warden. My canon Freya Amell and Alistair are alive, but for this prompt I just had to go with the Warden making the ultimate sacrifice.





	The Silence of Grief

_It should have been me._

He stares unblinking into the grey dawn, arms folded, the rich raiment befitting his new station quickly saturated in the relentless drizzle. The gathered crowd are morose, waiting silently in the square for the great unveiling. At the gesture from Eamon, Alistair steps forward, finding words from somewhere to speak. Some mage somewhere has amplified his words, his voice booming to every corner of Denerim’s packed main square. As he mouths the expected platitudes, he wonders absently how mere words are going to convey the depth of meaning, the enormity of sacrifice that weighs heavily on his broken heart.

Duty, honour, heroism. Archdemons, darkspawn, death. Alistair somehow makes it through a rousing speech, the crowd cheering as the monument to the Hero of Ferelden is revealed with a flourish. Eamon is nodding in approval, so he’s clearly done something right. Ferelden’s new king has been wheeled out on his first major public outing and avoided disaster.

Given the occasion in question, Alistair’s amazed that any words came out at all.

He thought he’d feel more. Perhaps it’s because the bronze statue bears only a fleeting resemblance to her, the sculptor clearly taking the meaning of artistic license to a new level. Perhaps it’s because the crushing guilt has yet to leave him, visions of her slender body caught up in a screaming vortex of power as she fought to keep her sword in the archdemon’s skull haunting his every thought. Or, perhaps it’s because he still can’t accept she’s gone, her teasing laughter and lilac scent following him no matter where he goes.

_It should have been me._

Mercifully, it’s finally over. He’s icy cold inside, his eyes tracing the outline of the statue repeatedly in a sudden absurd hope that it will spring to life, his Warden restored to him once more. There’s a nudge at his elbow breaking the impossible dream, urging him inside. Alistair blindly waves the courtier away, his feet planted firmly in the soggy grass. The rest know better than to disturb him, Tegan’s hand resting on his shoulder for a moment in silent sympathy.

Alistair doesn’t know how long he stands there as the crowds drift away, a lone figure unmoving in the now thick, wet fog. He stands in silent tribute, assailed by memory after memory of the last year of his life. The year when, even amongst the horror of war and the nightmare of what would befall Ferelden if they failed, he’d truly started to live. To savour the meaning of being alive. There was no memorial in Thedas that would ever capture the vibrancy of her spirit, the joy she found in the simplest of pleasures. The essence of her very being had been snuffed out too soon, only the warming light of her love remaining, nestled in a cherished safe place in his soul.

_It should have been me._

It wasn’t meant to have been this way. They were supposed to have been Wardens together, defeating the darkspawn monsters hand in hand before allowing themselves the luxury of exploring each other once the madness had passed. Yet somehow he’s standing here with a seriously uncomfortable crown on his head and no Warden by his side. He’s only got the echoes of the past to keep him company, a bleak future with only the cold comfort of duty to guide his path.

‘It should have been me,’ he whispers into the now-empty square, acknowledging his utter failure to protect her and keep her alive. He was meant to be a Warden, sworn to protect against the ancient enemy. That he collapsed at the first hurdle merely highlights all he has lost. All that he’ll never regain.

The icy cold within is replaced by a burning shame closely followed by utter desolation, Alistair nearly driven to his knees by wave after wave of crippling loss. Somehow he remains upright through the cathartic blaze of emotion ripping through him, his breaths short and his mind blank of everything but her.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there for, eyes closed, the damp fingertips of fog enveloping him in a cold embrace. Time becomes irrelevant as he allows, for the first time, the floodgates of sorrow to open. Regret for his lack of action that day wars with the relief of simply feeling once more, Alistair slowly becoming aware of his surroundings.

The statue is a shadow in the murk as Alistair finally turns on his heel to head inside the castle. He’s not sure if he’ll ever find peace within himself, let alone forgiveness. He’s breathing while she’s dead, after all, the light gone from his life. A sudden surge of anger grips him at the pointlessness of the charade, a mere statue in no way ever able to replace what’s gone. Miserably he’s aware of being the only person who can truly pay tribute to her, to live up to the belief she had in him.

For that reason alone he’ll continue, unable to think of a better memorial to his lost love than serving his country as King.

With that reminder, each breath becomes more purposeful as his arms fall by his side, determined to do her proud. Yet if he’s to function he can’t allow himself to lose control as he’d done mere minutes ago. The blindsiding hurt is replaced by a hollow chill, Alistair forcing all emotion to one side. He raises his head and stares straight ahead, his equilibrium and resolve restored.

The prevailing wetness on his cheeks, that steady flow which hasn’t abated since he started his speech, well surely that’s the blasted rain.


End file.
